


Changes

by getyourrocksalt



Series: The Sullivan Series [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abduction, Alcohol, Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Brotherly Bonding, Dark, Drama, Dreams and Nightmares, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Family, Feelings, Flirting, Friendship, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Major Original Character(s), Multi, Original Character-centric, Other, Protective Dean Winchester, Relationship(s), Season/Series 01, Sexual Content, Shapeshifting, Slow Build, Strong Female Characters, Supernatural Elements, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-10-24 07:56:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10737435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getyourrocksalt/pseuds/getyourrocksalt
Summary: Huntress Zoë Sullivan has always worked the field alone, but a case in the city of Rochester, Minnesota changes that. When both she and the Winchesters land the same job, things are bound to get ugly.First part of a series that follows the hunters over the course of five years. If you like a story loaded with angst, sentiment and plot twists, this is one written for you.





	1. About A Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoë Sullivan is on the run after a case goes south. After taking care of her injuries, she tries to figure out how the creature she's hunting made her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical playlist:  
> 1\. About A Girl - Nirvana  
> 

 

R o c h e s t e r ,   M i n n e s o t a  
N o v e m b e r   2 4 t h ,  2 0 0 5  -  p r e s e n t   d a y 

 

Rain falls down during a chilly night in November. Thunder rumbles in the distance as heavy rainfall dims the flashes of lightning. Several miles outside of the city in the wide open spaces, the world seems deserted at this hour. The atmosphere is threatening as nature shows its presence. Straight roads cross the farmlands, not a living soul is riding them. No one is on their way home or driving away from it. Then again, in this weather, who would want to be out on the road? In the distance a light appears and steadily approaches. A bright shimmering reflects in the water on the asphalt as the sound of the engine increases as it gets closer. It’s not an ordinary engine, not just a simple sound like those modern eco cars produce these days. Actually, it’s not even a car. A black Harley Davidson rides through the night roaring like a lion. The classic motorbike leaves a trail of water spraying up from the back tire. The polished paintjob shines despite the dark surroundings and raindrops try to cling to waxed metal, failing miserably. It’s obvious the owner of this beauty takes good care of her. It’s the type of bike you would expect an old rocker to ride. The kind that listens to Metallica, has big whiskers, long hair and a beard, who rides from bar to bar, consuming nothing but fast food and beer. Nevertheless this lucky Harley is ridden by a young woman. Its rider seems to be in a hurry; despite the slippery roads, she speeds down 75th street NW at 90 miles an hour. This woman and her Harley have reason to haste. The biker tries to focus on the road ahead but keeps glancing in her side mirror, checking if she’s being followed. The sharp pain in her side keeps her awake as she mutters to herself. How could she be so fucking stupid? It’s her job to know the type, to know how they operate and yet she was caught off guard. Somehow something changed between this encounter and the one before. The suburb of Rochester appears in the south; she’s almost there. In pain she bends over her bike, clamping one arm around her waist and can’t help but to cuss.  
   “Son of a bitch...”  
  
She refuses to look down at her injury and keeps herself together. Hopefully it’s not too bad, she can’t risk going to a hospital. It’s during moments like these she regrets falling in love with her 94’ Harley Davidson Road King, because a faster bike like a modern Kawasaki would be much more convenient at the moment. She follows the road, which is shadowed by trees on both sides as passing through a small town called Douglas. Again checking her side mirror, but there’s nothing behind her. In front of her she sees several cars and trucks driving up route 52. A sigh of relief escapes her lips; she’s back in the civilized world. She turns right just before the highway and speeds up again on the road running parallel to it. Finally the motel appears in the distance. A building with a large neon light number ‘6’ on the roof is located on the right side of the road. The bike slows down as it approaches their place for the night. She parks her Harley in front of the motel and turns off the ignition. Not as elegantly as usual, she gets off her bike and heads towards the entrance of the motel. With her right hand at her painful side she stumbles across the parking lot as she takes off her helmet. A flash of lightning brightens up the area and reflects on the cars parked in front. For a split second she thinks she sees a shadow standing in the rain. Quickly she turns toward it, but it’s gone. Instinctively her hand goes for the gun tucked behind her waistband. Alert she scans her surroundings, her intuition tells her that she’s not alone. Is she getting paranoid? He wouldn’t come out here and follow her by car, would he? That would be insane, he’d be too exposed. Her hand slips of the grip of the gun and she makes a run for it. Hastily entering the lobby of the motel, she closes the door behind her. It’s warm inside, country music is playing in the background, a huge contrast to the cold darkness outside. Standing in the brightly lit lobby makes her feel a bit more at ease. Which is total crap of course; if he wanted, he could strike right here, right now. An old man behind the counter looks up from his paper, glancing over his reading glasses. An empty beer bottle decorates his desk along with some paper wraps which once held a Wendy’s cheeseburger. She stares at the paper wrap for a moment; hell, she would die for one of those.  
   “You’re behind in your payment, Mrs Johnson”, the old man remarks bored.  
She throws a Mastercard on the desk, which the motel manager takes with a straight face without thanking her.  
   “I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you the extra night too. It’s way past check out”, he claims.  
   "No worries, book two more, I’ll be sticking around for a few more days”, she sighs.  
   “Business taking longer than expected, huh?”, he assumes while working the computer.  
   “Something like that, yeah”, she answers vaguely.  
  
She's glad he doesn’t have any further questions, not being in the mood for a chit chat with the fossil. She looks outside, slightly out of breath, her face tensed. The motel manager glances over his screen every once in a while, observing his client. Her black leather biker jacket wet through, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Her straight brown hair is shoulder length, a pair of dark eyes seem worried. A young woman, he’s surprised she's married at such an early age. She doesn’t really seem like the marrying type and he has seen a lot come and go. The poor girl looks pale too, as if she’s ill or carrying a heavy weight upon her shoulders, who knows? He doesn’t bother to ask. Despite her slim figure, she seems like a person you don’t want to mess with.  
“Here you go”, he hands her back her Mastercard, “You know the way”.  
The mystery woman nods, picks up her helmet from the desk and walks down the hallway. While entering room number 82 she takes off her jacket carefully and hastens to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, she’s unpleasantly surprised by the bloodstain on her grey shirt. As she lifts it up, the fabric keeps sticking to her skin and feels anything but pleasant. Then she reveals the bullet wound underneath, several inches to the left of her hipbone.  
   “Fuck”, she cusses.  
Carefully she takes off her shirt, grabs a towel and wipes away the blood around the wound with some water, stumbling back to the bedroom. Still pressing the towel against her side, she takes a small briefcase from under the bed. Putting it down on the table in the corner of the room, she sits down on the chair. A sigh escapes from her lips; then she opens the lid revealing surgical equipment, bandages, stitches, sterilizers, tape, painkillers and more. It’s enough gear to do a minor surgery. She swallows apprehensively; this is going to get nasty.  
   “Hell, I’m not doing this alone”, she says to herself.  
Next to her bed a bottle of whiskey beckons her. With a moan the injured woman gets up, grabs the Jack and the glass next to it, turns on the radio on the cabinet and walks back to the table, halting to face the mirror inside the briefcase. Filling up the glass with alcohol, she grabs gloves, forceps, gauze, compresses and other instruments she is going to need. In the background, the first tones of _About A Girl_ performed by Nirvana come through the speakers. With the bottle of whiskey on standby, she clears her throat and sighs, while putting on the blue latex gloves; here goes nothing. There is a sharp increase of pain as forceps slowly enters her body. With her eyes focused on the reflection in the mirror, her jaws clamped together as she tries to reach the bullet. She groans softly, fighting the intense pain, trying to contain herself. Not wanting to draw any attention is the only thing preventing her from screaming at the top of her lungs. Then the forceps touches something solid. With tears burn in her eyes she tries to get hold of it, then she carefully pulls back and drops the bullet into the glass. Quickly she grabs the whiskey and takes a few large swigs.  
   “Shit, that hurts”, she mutters, placing the bottle back on the table with a loud bang.  
  
The worst part is done, but it’s not quite finished yet. Her hand reaches for the disinfectant, but unfortunately the bottle of chlorhexidine is empty. Oh well, whiskey will have to do then. And so she takes the almost empty bottle and pours the last bit of whiskey into the wound. The alcohol needs only a second before taking effect. But when the heavily burning pain does come, no one would have been able to tone it down. The thing that really pisses her off right now is that she’s out of whiskey. Frustrated the young woman clenches her fist, waiting for the pain to fade away until it is bearable. After several minutes she finally calms down and glances back at the briefcase on the table, takes the thread and stitch scissors and finishes up. She doesn’t even feel much pain from the stitching needle piercing her skin, it almost feels like a tickle compared to the forceps. After ripping a sterile wound pad out of its package and soaking it in betadine, she places it over the wound and tapes it to her skin. Done. With a sigh she strolls over to the bathroom. Again the woman - who basically just performed surgery on herself - looks in the mirror.  
   “Well hello, Sunshine”, she groans sarcastically as she registers the bags under her eyes, her run down makeup and messy hair.  
She looks like shit and that’s an understatement. But considering recent events, she's lucky not seeing the reflection of her ghost in the mirror. She bends over the sink and opens up the faucet. Crimson circles down the drain, the water feels refreshing on her skin as it washes off the blood. Hands on the edge of the sink, eyes closed; time to take a moment to stop, debrief and take a breath. What a night, what the hell happened out there? Where did this go wrong? She found the pattern, located the next victim, at least she thought she did. Burdened the brunette turns around and slowly walks back to the main room. The interior of the motel is rather boring, but the bed is nice and there’s television. It was a pleasant surprise to discover that the motel also has an outdoor pool, but she can forget swimming with her new war wound. By the bed she halts. A whole bunch of newspaper articles, pictures, books, blueprints, maps and a Macbook are spread out over the mattress as some sort of mind map. An outsider would think that this so called Mrs. Johnson might either be special agent of some kind or a psychotic killer, but neither is true. In fact, her name isn’t even Mrs Johnson. Biting her lip, she tries to find some sort of link, an explanation for what happened tonight. Terry Cliffer, the dude she expected to be the next target, turned out to already be a victim. Somehow the suspect was on to her and made a change of plans, but what triggered it? Or maybe this is nothing like she has ever seen before, maybe this is really out of the ordinary.  
   “For as far as my cases aren’t”, she admits, muttering to herself.

She picks up two articles, both from the local paper the _Post-Bulletin_ . One is about a murderer with an ironclad alibi and one tiny report of a strange robbery. Both incidents took place during the same night, both suspects were caught on surveillance cameras, both have alibis and both don’t fit the profile of a killer or a thief. Two separate mysteries for the local police, one crystal clear case for a hunter. Until now, that is.  
   “Shit”, she curses again, frustrated with being one step behind on her guy.  
Then there’s that other question, maybe one of even bigger importance; how the hell did he shift that fast? She picks up a book from her bed and reads the passage again, which is titled “Shapeshifting”.  
   “ _’Shapeshifting is a common theme in mythology and folklore. In its broadest sense, it is a metamorphosis (change in the physical form or shape) of a person. Shapeshifting involves physical changes such as alterations of age, gender, race, or general appearance or changes between human form’_ , Great, like I didn’t know that”.  
Still standing up she leafs through the book, trying to find what she’s looking for.  
   “ _Forms of shapeshifting, powers, punitive changes, needed items_ , yada yada yada. Damn it, where the hell is it!”, throwing the book back on the bed she sits down and grabs her Macbook.   
Focused she starts up her internet browser and looks up her archives. After a bit of searching, the screen finally shows the information that she’s been looking for.  
   “ _Shifting progress. The shifting progress takes several hours, but can be fastened by the shapeshifter itself, by_ …. Oh, that’s just gross”, she says disgusted, staring at macbook rereading the passage just to be sure.

It might be gross, but that’s what’s going on. Something disturbed it, but did she mess up this hunt or did someone else blow her cover? She must go back to the roots of this case for this all to make sense. At least five people are connected to each other. Five people who don’t work together, who don’t live close by, but there’s one thing they have in common; they’ve all been at the 110th Ave NW just outside Rochester during the last month. So this shifter must be hiding somewhere along that road, somewhere… She opens a satellite picture of the area on her Mac and observes the houses alongside that road. The houses are spread out, have long driveways, some even their own street. It would take months to figure it out and he would be long gone by then. A few days ago she thought she had a lead. The shapeshifter had to leave his crime scenes fast, so she figured. All the tracks just vanished into thin air, but when taking a better look, she discovered the shapeshifter uses the sewer system to travel. More than fifty percent of the houses out there aren’t connected to the sewer system but have their own septic tanks, so scratch those of the list. Only nine of the remaining houses are empty. The problem is that she already checked those homes; dead end.  
   “Come on, girl. What does your gut tell you”, she whispers to herself, while checking out the satellite photo and maps.  
One house in particular captures her eye, deep into the forest. It’s not connected to the sewer system, but it’s empty. It wouldn’t make any sense for the shapeshifter to hide out in the woods miles from the sewer, but she has a feeling there is something going on in that place. Her intuition is the only thing she’s going on right now, there are no other leads. Then why is it that she is drawn to this house? Why is a voice in the back of her mind telling her to go there while it makes absolutely no sense?  
   “This is insane”, she states as she puts on a new top.  
Insane, maybe. But she is not going sit on her ass and watch that monster get away with more abductions. What concerns her is that most of the people the shifter spied on are now missing. They could be dead for all she knows, but they could also be captured some place and in that case, every second counts. This stops tonight, she has been hunting this thing for way too long. Determined she gathers her stuff and leaves the room, back into the hunting fields.


	2. Hey Man, Nice Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean stake out a house outside of Rochester, suspecting the Shapeshifter to hold up there, but they run into someone entirely different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical playlist:  
> 1\. Hey Man Nice Shot - Filter

R o c h e s t e r ,   M i n n e s o t a  
N o v e m b e r   2 4 t h ,  2 0 0 5  -  p r e s e n t   d a y 

   “Just remind me, why are we here again, Sam?”  
A ’67 Chevrolet Impala comes to a complete stop on the driveway of an old house. It’s still dark, but an approaching thunderstorm is able to cast a flash of light on the abandoned property. _Hey Man, Nice Shot_ by _Filter_ is playing in the cassette deck as the driver in his mid twenties glances over his younger brother next to him. Apparently he is not amused.  
   “Dean, let it go already. If we have a lead on our guy, we take it. Even if it’s six O'clock in the morning”, the passenger responds annoyed.  
   “We don’t have a lead, you have a hunch. That’s my point, Sam. Or should I call you Char?”, Dean argues.  
   “Okay, so we don’t have a lead, but that’s exactly why we should check this out and…”, Sam wants to continue his sentence, but Dean interrupts.  
   “You know what I should be doing? Sleeping. In a bed”, he corrects, glaring at the young man next to him.  
   “Come on...”, Sam sighs and looks away.  
   “No, Sam. I can’t help it you’re up all night”, the oldest of the two counters. “We have an appointment with that Cliffer dude tomorrow during normal daytime, we work from there. That’s what we agreed on”.  
   “We’re not even certain if he’s the next victim. If we find something here we might actually know what we’re dealing with”, Sam says, trying to talk him into it.  
   “I thought you already knew what we’re dealing with?”, Dean cries out.  
   “I’m pretty sure, but what did you expect? We just got here. All that we _do_ know is because of my research, so back off”, Sam returns snappy, opens his door and gets out.  
   “Someone has to do the driving, if it was for you we’d end up in Texas!”, Dean yells with raised voice for the youngest Winchester to hear him.  
Sam halts on the driveway and sighs. Why does Dean have to be a smart mouth? He turns around and stares at his brother. The headlights of the Chevy light him up, he has to squint to see Dean through the glass.  
   “We’re here, we might as well check it out”, Sam suggests, while raising his arms to the side as he shrugs.

He waits for Dean to react, who continues to stare at him challenging without saying a word. His expression says it all, really. His left hand on the wheel arrogantly, the ‘don’t you dare walk any further and get your ass back in the car’ look on his face. Sam is planning to do the opposite though. After all, he’s the stubborn one.  
   “Whatever, Dean”, Sam says unimpressed as he turns back to the house and starts walking.  
   “Sam, where are you going?”  
Dean leans outside over the door of his car, watching his brother like a hawk.  
   “What does it look like?”, Sam answers bored without looking back and strolls on with his hands in his pocket.  
   “Sammy, get back here!”, Dean commands with stern voice.  
But his little brother ignores his order and follows the road to the house. Dean waits a little while, not wanting to give in and let him win, but he can’t possibly let him enter the house all by himself; what if there is something inside? He knows he won’t let him go in alone, Sam probably knows that just as well.  
   “Stubborn bastard...”, Dean curses, turns off the ignition and gets out of his car.  
Irritated he opens the trunk, takes out a duffel bag and loads an extra gun, which he puts away behind his waistband. He tosses the bag over his shoulder, locks the car and catches up with his brother.  
   “Walking into a possible hideout without a weapon”, he mocks while handing Sam a gun. “And they call you the responsible one”.  
   “I knew you’d come around”, Sam responds with a grin.  
   “Wipe that smile of your face, smartass. We’ve got work to do”, Dean mutters, taking the lead up the front porch.  
   “Silver bullets?”, Sam asks as he checks his gun.  
   “Yep”, Dean confirms. “One of these to the heart and our chameleon is dead”.  
   “If it is a shapeshifter”, Sam questions.  
   “Well if it isn’t, silver will do just fine and if it’s already dead, I still have this baby”, Dean says, showing him the bag from which a double barrel shotgun sticks out, loaded with rock salt.  
Dean grabs the doorknob and opens the door, which slowly swings open with a shrieking sound.  
   “Shit just got scary”, Dean pretends to shiver.  
   “Cut the crap and be serious for once”, Sam whispers annoyed as he checks the living room, holding up his flashlight and his gun in the other hand.  
Dean decides to take his brother’s advice. Despite that they are suspecting a shapeshifter, he pulls out his homemade EMF device just in case. If anything dead is still living in this house, the meter would go sky high.

They search the house, looking for clues, gun up and ready to strike if necessary. The rooms are still furnished, but a thick layer of dust covers the tables, couches and other furniture in the house. A few windows are broken, shattered glass is spread over the wooden floor. Paint has come off the moldy walls, no one has been here for ages. The brothers meet again in the kitchen.  
   “Nothing here”, Sam concludes with lowered voice, still cautious.  
   “See, told ya”, Dean rubs in.  
   “I’ll check upstairs, you check the other rooms down here”, Sam suggests, ignoring Dean’s comment.  
   “Alright…”, he sighs, strolling to the other room.  
Dean scans through some paperwork, but there’s nothing interesting here. He shakes his head; he can’t believe he’s out in the woods at six o'clock in the morning, doing absolutely nothing useful. Hell, he could be fast asleep right now.  
   “I’m all clear, Sam”, Dean puts away his gun and walks back to the hallway.  
   “Yeah, me too”, Sam looks down from the staircase, disappointed.  
   “Now let’s get the hell outta here before the…”  
Sam doesn’t finish his sentence, because of a noise, coming from somewhere inside the house. Dean observes the area, alertly he takes out his gun again. Silently his brother comes down the stairs. They both have the feeling they’re being watched, but besides the sound they just heard, they can’t detect anything out of the ordinary. Dean’s eyes seek Sam’s, he looks back. A short connection, eye contact for a fraction of a second, it’s all they need to understand each other perfectly. It crosses Dean’s mind for a split second that it’s their first interaction that only close siblings have, since Sam came back from Stanford three weeks ago. The current threat forces him to keep his mind on the job, though. Dean approaches the door to the provision room where the sound originated from, backed up by his brother. Both have their guns in both hands and are ready to fire. Carefully he lets his left hand slip off the grip and grabs the doorknob, when a gun unlocks.  
   “What the..?”  
A shot echoes through the house and Dean hits the wall. In a quick reaction, Sam fires his gun twice in the direction where the bullet came from, then he concentrates on his brother.  
   “Dean!”, Sam cries out.  
He kneels next to him trying to keep him upright, startled by what just happened. His brother collapsed against the wall bleeding from the bullet wound in his shoulder that almost causes him to pass out, but he can keep it together. With his jaws clamped together and his eyes squeezed shut he tries to fight the pain.  
   “That wasn’t rock salt, was it?”, Sam remarks with a trace of panic in his voice.  
   “Damn sure it wasn’t!”, Dean moans frustrated.  
Suddenly a flashlight shines on their faces. Sam quickly goes for his weapon, but he can hear the gun which shot Dean a moment ago unlock.  
   “Stop it. Right. There”, a feminine voice commands.  
  
The bright ray blinds the boys, Sam can’t see who is pointing a rifle at him and his brother. The only thing they hear is their own respiration, Dean’s out of control and heavily. The tension is running high now that the brother’s are held at gunpoint. Not sure how screwed up they truly are, they wait for their attacker to undertake action. The beam from the flashlight glides over their faces, as if the beholder tries to see something in their eyes. Then the gun locks and lowers.  
   “Damn it”, their attacker swears.  
   “You can say that again…”, Dean groans.  
   “What the hell are you doing here?”, she snaps irritated, shining the flashlight back on the boys faces.  
When it captures Dean, she keeps the beam of light in place. Wait a minute, he looks familiar. Didn’t his partner just call him Dean?  
   “We could ask you the same thing”.  
Sam intends to get up, but immediately looks into the barrel.   
   “I told you not to move”, she repeats strictly.  
   “Who are you?”, he asks, pretending not to be impressed.  
   “None of your fucking business”, she answers rapidly and concentrates on Dean again. “I know you”.  
   “I hope not”, Dean reacts smartly.  
   “One of your mad exes?”, Sam asks with lowered voice.  
   “Don’t know, but if you’d stop shining that damn light in my face, I can have a better look!”, he says, directing his gaze at their opponent as he squints from the blinding light and holds his hand above his eyes.  
She lowers the flashlight in order for Dean to see her face. Capturing her he smirks, apparently he likes what he sees.  
   “No, I have absolutely no idea who you are, unless… Aren’t you that chick from Seattle with the weird piercing?”, he wonders challenging.  
   “Take a better look, Dean Winchester”.  
She throws him the flashlight, which he catches with one hand and aims at her. In front of him stands a young woman, probably in her mid twenties, with short brown hair and dark eyes, wearing leather pants and jacket.  
   “Nice, but I’m not really into that kinda thing”, he comments, shrugging doubtfully.  
She averts her gaze bored and sighs, shaking her head. Dean looks up at the woman again, taking her in once more. He can’t see much, only bright light and dark shades, but she’s right; he knows that face. He observes the fine profile of her jaw, her nose and chin. Her hair is much shorter than it was back then, but those dark eyes, how could he forget?  
   “Zoë?”, he asks surprised.  
  
She looks back at him, a satisfied smile appears on her face.  
   “Zoë Sullivan, I can’t believe it”, he grins, but clamps his hand around his bleeding shoulder, realizing his acquaintance is the one who caused it.  
   “You shot me!”, he cries out in disbelief.  
   “Who?”, Sam interrupts their intermezzo.  
   “Yeah, same question. Who is he?”, Zoë asks him as she kneels down next to Dean and takes a look at his injury.  
   “He’s my brother”, Dean answers with a tense face, clearly in pain.  
   “Ah, Sam right? College boy”, she responds with a tone.  
Sam glares at her and looks over to his brother.  
   “I can see how you two met”, he comments.  
   “We weren’t an item if that’s what you mean”, Zoë directly corrects.  
   “But we did look kinda cute, didn’t we?”, Dean adds hopeful.  
Zoë frowns amused and almost pitiful. Oh sweety, not in a milion years.  
   “You never stood a chance, Dean”, she chuckles.  
Without warning she tears up Dean’s sleeve to have a better look at his shoulder.  
   “Hey!”, Dean cries out stunned.  
   “You can buy a new shirt with your scammed credit cards, stop whining”, she says with a stern voice.  
   “Well if you’re not one of his dates...”, Sam responds as he gets up and watches the two. “Then how do you know each other?”  
   “For one, Dean doesn’t date, he fucks everything he can find”, she starts.  
   “I’m still in the room, y’know?”, Dean intervenes irritated, but Zoë ignores him.  
   “Get up”, she commands.  
Sam gives his brother a hand and helps him on his feet. Dean keeps pressure on the wound with his left hand, moaning softly.  
   “Let’s get the fuck out of here”, he mutters grumpy and heads for the door, leaning on his brother.

Zoë holds the door as they exit the house. She glances over her shoulder and takes a last look at the old place. A sigh escapes from her lips.  
   “Well, that didn’t got me any further”, she whispers to herself, but apparently loud enough for Dean to hear.  
   “You got me shot”, he comments grumpy.  
   “Oh don’t be such a baby, it’s just your shoulder. I can aim”, she reacts bored, putting her gun away.  
   “Don’t you check your target before you fire a bullet at it?”, he says looking back, as Zoë follows them down the driveway.  
   “You were the one who told me to shoot first and ask questions later”, she answers smartly.  
   “That does sound like you”, Sam agrees, after which Dean glares at him.  
   “Shut up, did you book a motel?”  
He waits by the door on the passenger's side and reluctantly tosses his brother the keys. No way it would be an easy drive with some silver in his shoulder, so he’ll leave it to Sam for once.  
   “What do I look like, a travel agency?”, Sam returns smartly as he unlocks the Impala.  
   “Where are you staying?”, Dean turns to Zoë, who walks into the shade.  
   “ _Motel 6_ , down the 52”, she answers. “But forget your idea of sharing a room, get your own”.  
   “In that case I hope your motel has more than one room”, he mumbles, agitated by her attitude.  
   “You need a ride?”, Sam offers, not seeing another car anywhere close.  
Dean throws a stunned glare over the top of the car. His ‘what the fuck, Sam?’ face causes the youngest of the two to roll his eyes at him.  
   “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself”, Zoë returns with a tone that doesn’t fit the nice offering Sam made.  
It triggers the youngest Winchester to raise his eyebrows at her, from the corner of his view he notices the relief on Dean’s face. It only took him a couple of minutes to figure out that she’s a handful these days. Sam on the other hand is intrigued.  
   “Where did you leave your car then?”, he wonders as the young woman disappears into the shade of the trees.  
   “Who said anything about a car?”

Zoë pushes a black motorbike into motion, presenting it to the two hunters. The Harley Davidson emblem shines on the gas tank proudly. It’s clear that neither of the boys were expecting this form of transportation, because Sam’s brows shoot up as Dean’s jaw drops.  
   “You ride a motorcycle?”, he concludes surprised.  
   “I don’t ride a motorcycle, I ride a Harley Davidson”, she corrects while putting on her helmet. “You think the leather’s for fun?”  
   “Nice ride”, the oldest of the two compliments and nods approvingly.  
   “Thanks”, she returns with a small smirk of pride while getting on the black bike.  
   “What do you think of mine?”, Dean lays his hand on top of his ‘67 Chevy Impala, clearly proud of his baby, but Zoë doesn’t seem that impressed.  
   “It’s a car”, she comments dull.  
She starts her Harley as the headlight switches on and rides off, leaving Dean completely flabbergasted. Her taillight disappears as she turns around the corner, letting out a roar from the engine when she accelerates. Stunned Dean glides in the passenger’s seat, stares at the road ahead and slams the door.  
   “Did she just shoot me _and_ insult my car?”, he asks his brother.  
   “I think she did”, Sam answers as he turns his key in the ignition.  
   “What a _bitch_ !”, Dean says mad, spitting out the last word.  
   “I don’t know, I think she’s kind of fun”, his brother smirks.  
   “Shut up, college boy”, Dean returns crabby.  
Sam grins and starts the car. The mix tape in the cassette player automatically continues _Hey Man, Nice Shot_ by _Filter_ as Sam puts the car in first gear and drives off. Dean shakes his head disapproving.  
   “Just a car, how could she say that…”, he mutters insulted.  
   “Let it go, Dean”, Sam advises laughing as he turns on to the 110 th Ave NW.  
He follows the single red light in the distance and speeds up, before he loses sight of the biker chick. It bothers Sam that their visit to the house didn’t get them any further, he really had a feeling something was going on there, but apparently he was wrong. Oh well, at least they ran into Zoë. His brother won’t see that as a positive outcome, but she’s clearly a hunter, so she might have more information on this case. The sooner they solve this, the sooner they can continue their search for their father. It might not quite be the night they planned to have, but they cannot deny it was exciting.


	3. Skeletons & Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoë reluctantly shares her room with the Winchesters. When Sam is out for a supply run, Dean asks why she's hunting these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music playlist:  
> 1\. Heartbreaker - Led Zeppelin  
> 2\. I Wanna Be Sedated - The Ramones

 

R o c h e s t e r ,   M i n n e s o t a  
N o v e m b e r   2 4 t h ,  2 0 0 5  -  p r e s e n t   d a y 

 

Zoë pulls over and enters the parking lot of _Motel 6_ . Thunder still rumbles in the distance, as if the thunderstorm can’t get past. A red glow colors the horizon in the East; the sun will rise within an hour or so. As she puts her bike on the centerstand, Sam parks the black Chevy next to the Harley. He gets out of the car and walks around to help his brother, but Dean already managed to get out, grumbling that he can do it himself. The brothers walk up to the entrance, Zoë follows, keeping a sharp eye. But when she glances at Dean who keeps a tight grip on his shoulder as he stumbles towards the door, she sighs annoyed. It’s a guy thing, isn’t it? Feeling so sorry for themselves about ending up with a scratch or a bruise. And they truly believe they are the superior gender? She would like to see either one of those whiners to live through childbirth. Without warning Zoë walks up to Dean and smacks him against the back of his head.  
   “Aah! You b…”, he cries out, but she intervenes.  
   “Don’t you dare call me that, or it will be your face my hand hits”, she warns.  
   “What is your fucking problem?!”, he spits out with a lowered voice.  
   “You’re acting like you're already seeing the white light. Stand up straight, let go of your shoulder and stay behind your brother”, she tells him annoyed while passing him on their way to the foyer.  
   “Yes, Mother”, he responds with a tone.  
   “Just don’t make a scene, okay?”, she orders.  
   “Do you have any idea how much this hurts? You actually put a bullet in my shoulder!”, the oldest Winchester cries out.  
   “Be glad I didn’t put it in your heart, darling”.  
Narrowed eyes and a glare full of sas comes his way before Zoë grips the door handle. She’s about to push it open when Dean challenges her again.  
   “You can give me all the attitude that you’ve got, sweetheart, but you do realize that you’re a fucking amateur for shooting a hunter, right?”, he chuckles mockingly.  
With an eyeroll Zoë turns on her heels, eying him while biting the insides of her lip. This guy is starting to seriously piss her off. Does he really believe he can outsmart her? That’s adorable, actually.  
   “Let me tell you something, Dean. First, it’s called a warning shot. Secondly, I believe _I_ was the one _you_ didn’t see coming inside that house, _I_ was the one who shot _you_ and not the other way around. So tell me; who’s the amateur here?”  
She raises her eyebrows at him, not playfully but more in a victorious kind of way, then turns back to the door, whipping her hair round as she twists. The door falls shut after the huntress passes through before Dean can even think of a good counter. Sam huffs, shocked and yet impressed with her accomplishment. Who would’ve thought of that, she just shut up his brother. With his lips pressed together trying not to laugh the youngest Winchester follows his sibling, but Dean notices anyway and gives him a push in the back as they enter the motel lobby. The door closes behind them just as the thunder roars louder than it has all night. Dean, although not amused, does as told and stays in the shadow of his brother, so that the man behind the counter doesn’t notice his injury. Again the old man looks up from his magazine. He hasn’t done much, because the paper wraps and the beer bottle still lay scattered across the desk. He did have coffee though, probably to get through the boring night.  
  
   “At least I’m not just sitting here to become part of the furniture, thanks to you, Mrs. Johnson”, he comments, as it’s the third time this night that she enters the motel.  
   “Last time it will happen tonight”, she promises as she halts for a moment at the counter, taking her room key.  
   “That’s an easy one to keep, considering it’s morning”, he responds with a tone.  
The old man is not wrong. The clock on the wall is about to strike seven AM and she hasn’t had a minute of sleep in the past twenty four hours. While yawning she continues her way to her room, leaving behind the Winchesters. Sam clears his throat loudly and Zoë looks over her shoulder, only then realizing she’s forgetting something.  
   “Oh, right. These are colleagues of mine, they need a room”, she adds.  
   “Sorry, no can do”, the manager shakes his head and turns the page.  
She halts and turns around, as both Sam and Dean await an explanation with a confused look upon their faces.  
   “Why not?”, Sam asks.  
   “Lots of folks coming for that Texas Holdem’ Poker Tournament this weekend, I’m fully booked”, the old man explains.  
   “Great…”, Dean sighs, rolling his eyes.  
Sam sighs and glances at Zoë, but she doesn’t blink.  
   “I guess we have to find ourselves another motel then”, he concludes and intends to turn around.  
   “Good luck with that, but I believe most of the motels are pretty much booked too, I think your best option is to take a few hours sleep in your car”, the manager advises, without looking up from his magazine.  
   “Well, you heard the man, good luck with that”, Zoë quickly turns around and walks on.   
   “Wait a minute”, the oldest of the two brothers steps towards her, as Sam tries to talk to the manager.  
   “Sir, isn’t there some sort of arrangement we can make here? Me and my brother, we’be been on the road for quite some time and we haven’t slept on a decent bed in weeks”, Sam asks polite.  
Puppy dog eyes and a friendly smile, the main ingredients for getting what Sam wants. His words are calm and friendly, but this time they are not enough to do the job. The hundred dollar bill that the hunter slips the manager does, though. The man stands up and leans on the counter, biting on the plastic spoon from his empty coffee container, thinking for some kind of option.  
   “I have no rooms left, but I tell you what”, he says as he turns over to Zoë and Dean, who are arguing down the hallway.  
   “Room 82 has a double bed and a couch, if Mrs. Johnson doesn’t mind, I will allow you two to spend the night”, he suggests while looking at the owner of the room.  
   “What? Like… share?”, she asks with a trace of disgust in her voice.  
   “That’s what social people do”, Dean lisps at her.  
She glares at him in response, then looks over at Sam. There they are again, hazel eyes ask her beggingly. Her gaze trails back to Dean who hints at his shoulder. The blood is coming through his denim jacket and has started to drip down his arm; he needs treatment. No matter how much she detests sharing a room with the Winchesters,  Zoë  can’t let him sleep in the car. That would be too cruel, even for her. Although she doesn’t like Dean’s attitude, she was the one who did this to him. And so she rolls her eyes and nods approving.  
   “Alright then, that’s settled. Now I don’t want any trouble, this is off the books, so if anything occurs…”, the manager warns them, as he sits back into his chair.  
   “We understand, thanks very much”, Sam gives him a thankful smile before he joins up with his brother and Zoë.  
  
The three of them walk through the hallway together, but as soon as they are around the corner, Zoë smacks Sam against the shoulder. She would have rather smacked his head like she did with Dean a minute ago but she doesn't,  simply because he's too tall for her to reach.  
   “Hey!”, Sam puts his arm up in defense.  
   “Why do you think I let you walk in the middle?”, Dean comments.  
   “What were you thinking!”, she spits with lowered voice.  
   “Don’t worry about it, I’ll sleep on the couch”, Sam offers.  
   “And let him sleep next to me? Not in a million years”, she glares at Dean and gives Sam a penetrating look afterwards.  
They walk into the room and Zoë switches on the lights, but before she can turn around, Dean claims her bed. With a sigh of relief he settles against the backboard, propping his feet up on the sheets without taking his boots off first.  
   “Get off”, Zoë orders the moment she catches sight of his actions.          
   “I’m actually quite comfortable”, he nags.  
   “You are messing up my research”, Zoë persists.  
   “I’m tired, hungry, my shoulder hurts like hell thanks to you. So if you have a problem with me crashing on the bed, you can bite me”.  
As Dean rants, the huntress raises her brow at him as her jaw slowly drops. What did he just say to her?  
   “Excuse me? Who’s motel room do you think this is again, you ungrateful little shit!? Because I could’ve sworn that…”  
   “My God, woman! Can you tone it down and give me a break here? I just wanna have a whole bunch of painkillers and get some sleep”, the oldest brother interrupts agitated, before he lays back down on the bed again.  
   “Do the world a favor and take the entire bottle, but you’re either sleeping on the couch or on the ground”, she decides, turning back at Sam. “You two figure out who sleeps where”.

She lays down her helmet on the table and takes of her biker jacket, which she hangs to dry on the back of the chair. Dean eye catches the briefcase on the table and swallows apprehensively as he beholds what’s inside. Right, getting shot was the easy part. Sam takes a look at the Macbook Pro on the bed, kneeling down in front of it to observe the piece of technology.  
   “This is sweet”, he comments, letting his finger glide over the touchpad, enlarging the icons at the bottom of the screen.  
   “Hands off, I just got it”, Zoë, who has started cleaning her surgical equipment, warns.  
Cautious he backs away from the laptop as the huntress eyes him. He’s not set back by her hostile response, though. He barely lets Dean touch his own computer, let alone allow a stranger to work it, so he understands where she’s coming from.  
   “You know, it just occurred to me…”  
Sam sits down on the side of the bed facing her, clears his throat and puts his hands together leaning forward.   
   “I don’t think you ever answered my question”, he recalls.  
   “What question is that?”   
Zoë doesn’t even look up, apparently not interested.  
   “How did you two meet?”, Sam asks curiously.  
Before she even says a word, Zoë looks up at Dean. Clearly she doesn’t want to answer. Dean keeps watching her with a questioning look on his face, his brow slightly furrowed. She nods approving; he can tell Sam what happened.   
   “Zoe was a case, five or six years ago when you were spending a couple of weeks at pastor Jim’s”, Dean starts off.  
   “A case?”, Sam repeats stunned.  
   “She was possessed by a Diligo Vesco demon. Nasty son of a bitch, believe me”, Dean elaborates.  
   “Diligo Vesco… Don’t they feed on the loved ones of their victim?”, Sam checks with them.  
   “They sure do”, Zoë answers shortly, obviously not glad about the fact that she’s the subject of this conversation.  
   “We hung out a bit while Dad was working the job, he took care of it”, Dean tells while Zoë gets up.  
  
She walks over to the kitchen cabinets and opens one after she activates the water heater.  
   “Fuck”, she curses, looking inside.  
   “Now what?”, Dean, who just wants to get this day over with, sighs annoyed.  
   “I’m out of whiskey”, she declares, closing the cabinet doors.  
   “Well, I don’t know ‘bout you, but a beer will do just fine”, he comments.  
   “Not to drink, dickbag”, she responds, placing her hands in her side while watching him. “To fix you up”.  
   “Right…”, he clears his throat, but then suddenly realizes what she’s saying. “Wait, you’re gonna fix me up?”  
She can read the doubt in his facial expression, even though he tries to hide it. Before she can answer his question, Sam intervenes.  
   “I can patch him up if you wanna get some sleep”, he offers.  
   “Can you stitch up an axillary vein? Because I blasted his into oblivion”, she responds with an attitude.  
   “No, can you?”, Sam returns her question.  
   “She can, annoyingly enough”, Dean answers before Zoë can. “She studied meds”.  
Sam looks at her surprised. Clearly he didn’t expect Zoë to have the brains, but apparently she’s a lot smarter than he gave her credit for.  
   “You’re a med student?”, he asks, astonished yet again.  
   “Was”, she corrects shortly, walking to the bathroom to get a towel and a bowl. “Sam, do your brother a favor. Go down the 52 into Rochester and take the first right. You’ll find an _Apollo Liquor_ store on 55 th Street”.  
   “Got it”, Sam says, needing no further explanation as he heads for the door.  
   “Jack Daniels. If I’ll take a sip it might as well be good”, she adds.  
   “And while you’re at it, bring me a cheeseburger”, Dean now also requests. “Extra onions”.  
   “Make that two”.  
Zoë’s hollow voice sounds from the bathroom, but then she walks out.  
   “There’s a _Wendy’s_ around the corner”, she nods in the direction of the fast food restaurant.  
   “Anything else?”, Sam sighs, feeling slightly used.  
   “Yeah, I’d like fries with that. If you deliver within ten minutes, I’ll pass you some extra tip”,  Zoë answers smartly.  
Dean smirks, Sam shakes his head and leaves the room.

When the door slams, he leaves what should be an awkward silence, but Zoë doesn’t even feel a bit uncomfortable; clearly she’s not impressed with the Winchester brothers at all. Without a word she fills the bowl with the hot water and adds some betadine solution. With a clean towel in one hand and the bowl in the other she walks to the bed and spots Dean’s grin.  
   “What?”, she asks, not understanding his expression.  
   “I have to say, you are way more of a smartass than you were back then”, Dean recalls when she sits down next to him and dips the towel in the sterile water.  
   “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re still the same smart ass you were back then”, she bounces back. “Take off your shirt”.  
Dean looks at her sideways, pleasantly surprised by the sudden order.  
   “Don’t get any ideas”, she comments on his response.  
   “Alright, but I normally don’t do this until the second date”.  
He grunts as the fabric comes loose from the wound as he takes off the shirt. Zoë feels his pain, although she won’t admit it. His shoulder doesn’t look too bad, it seems like a pretty clean shot. She presses the towel against the wound, letting it absorb the blood. Dean swallows apprehensively and looks away, grinding his teeth. He feels uncomfortable.  
   “This is embarrassing”, the hunter mutters under his breath.  
   “And why is that?”, Zoë asks while she takes away the towel, flips it over and softly presses it against his shoulder again.  
   “I got my ass kicked by a girl and guess who’s patching me up”, Dean admits.  
   “True enough, I can see why your pride is damaged”, she smirks.  
   “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”, he notices.  
   “A bit, yeah”, she answers grinning. “But honestly, I’d rather be sleeping at this moment”.  
   “That makes two of us”, Dean groans and squints, fighting the fatigue which decided to team up with the pain.  
   “You could have ended up far worse”, she remarks.  
   “Dead perhaps? You won’t get rid of me that easily”, he replies with a slick smile.  
   “That’s not what I meant”, Zoë says as she takes a closer look at the wound. “Sam might be the brains of you two, but my guess is that he couldn’t have fixed that vein”.

He looks aside for a moment, examining her. Her slender hands prepare the surgical instruments professionally; it’s clear Zoë knows what she’s doing. She turned out quite nice, that Sullivan. Her long eyelashes curled up, dark brown hair hanging in front of her eyes, nice full lips. Her skin seems soft, but there’s something about her that gives her a tough appearance. It’s a vibe that he didn't pick up on last time he saw her. Back then she was this innocent rich kid from California; naive, nice, cute, clueless. Quite the opposite of what she comes off as tonight. She was always good looking, though. If he’d spot a girl like her in a bar, she would end up in his motel room for sure. Why didn't they end up between the sheets together? Now that he thinks of it, a previous boyfriend comes to mind, not that something like that ever stopped him from reeling girls in. He made his move while working her case back in 2000 - despite her relationship status - but she declined, the good girl. Something tells him that she’s anything but good these days.  
   “Thanks”, Dean says barely audible, somewhat out of the blue.  
Zoë glances at him, he looks down.  
   “Did Dean Winchester just thank me?”, she smirks.  
   “Don’t push it”.  
She chuckles. It’s a first time he sees a glimpse of the O.C. surf chick he met back then.  
   “Here, hold this”, she lays his hand on the towel still pressing his shoulder and gets up. “It’s way too quiet in here”.  
As she walks to the radio on the small table next to her bed, Dean checks her out and nods approving without her seeing it. Definitely. She would definitely have ended up in his motel room. _Heartbreaker_ by _Led Zeppelin_ comes on the moment she turns on the radio. A smile appears on her face; she loves this song. With a swing in her walk she moves to the small kitchen and opens the fridge.  
   “Beer?”  
  
He nods and she hands him a bottle. Before opening her own, Zoë searches the small fridge for something to eat. She bends forward to shove some cans and bottles aside in the back, fortunately for Dean. He can’t help himself. Whoa, he could bounce a quarter on that ass.  
   “Dean, stop looking at my butt”.  
Zoë gives him a sudden piercing look as she closes the door.  
   “I wasn’t…”, he quickly looks away.  
   “Yes, you were”, with a grin she opens her beer bottle and takes a swig. “You haven't changed one bit”.  
He looks back at her, comparing the self-conscious girl he met almost six years ago to the self-confident woman standing before him this day. She used to be much more vulnerable, more open, or is this version of her just a mask she’s wearing very well? She grew up delicately, left the girl in the sunny state and became a woman. A few scars add to her tough appearance without taking away any of her beauty. Typical combat injuries; small white lines run down her eyebrow, barely visible scar tissue on her upper lip and chin. Brown eyes focus on her hands who obviously have seen their fair share of fights, knives and rifles as well. She’s been hunting. It’s not just her skin that gives her away, it’s her eyes. Zoë has seen the worst.  
   “You’ve changed”.  
His eyes penetrate right through her thick armor; he’s serious. It was only two weeks that she spent with him, but she knows these moments are rare for Dean Winchester. She keeps looking back at him, not knowing whether to smile or act differently. The guitar solo of the _Led Zeppelin_ song sets in and gives an awkward feel to the moment, which Dean decides to break up.  
     
   “So…”, he starts off, taking a look at the research on the bed behind him. “Hunting full time now?”.  
   “Looks like it”, she responds shortly.  
   “Finished med school?”, he questions.  
   “No, dropped out”.  
Again an unpleasant silence, the tones from the guitar strings echo through the room as Dean searches for words.  
   “Funny, though”, Dean says as he takes a swig from the bottle and continues. “Of all the girls I’ve met, you were one of those who I’d never expected to become a hunter”.  
   “Why? I had all the ingredients needed. Death in the family, traumatizing encounter with a supernatural creature”, she adds up.  
   “Yeah, but still. What I understood from your sister you were one of the best students in your class. I never thought you would…”  
   “...end up like you?”, she interrupts and eyes him.  
He nods, she ponders.  
   “I see things differently now, I guess”, she says, thinking back of that time. "Too much happened to ignore and continue with my simple little life".  
As she stares at the wall, her eyes change and become shallow. She doesn’t think about that period of her life that often, at least she tries not to. The beat comes back into the song and immediately gives a different feel to the moment.  
   “That's bullshit", Dean argues while shaking his head. "You were on your way to becoming a top surgeon, there is nothing simple or little about that. You could’ve helped people your way, you know, without the motel-to-motel lifestyle, a life expectancy of thirty and no pay”.  
   “Where’s the fun in that when you know what’s really out there?”, the huntress wonders out loud.  
   “Big ass salary, white picket fence, a perfect career. Don’t get me wrong, I dig what I do, but you and I are completely different”, he brings to mind. “I just never thought this would be the life for you”.

 _Neither did I,_ b ut she doesn’t admit that out loud. Zoë bites on the inside of her cheek, trying to get rid of the frustration building inside her. Dean is poking the bear, trying to provoke her to talk might not be his best move. Fact is though, that his question is spot on. The hunters world isn't her scene, yet she got stuck in this loop of endless cases.  
   “Seriously, what happened after we hit the road? What made you go out on that first hunt?”  
She snaps out of her trance by his bold question and gives him a puzzled look.  
   “What? Like being possessed by a demon wasn’t enough?”, she returns.   
   “No, most people would try to forget it ever happened and move on with their apple pie lives”, he claims.  
   “Well I’m not like most people, am I?”  
A deadly glare penetrates Dean’s eyes, who’s caught off guard by her sudden irritation. He’s making her feel uncomfortable, but Dean digs deeper.  
   “You used to be”.  
   “People change, Dean. So did I”.  
Annoyed she sets down the beer bottle on the table with a loud bang. Dean narrows his eyes slightly, carefully observing her reaction. There’s more to this and she’s not telling him.  
   “What happened?”, he asks directly, but calm.  
   “Damn it, Dean! Would you just fucking drop it?”, she snaps, as the door of room 82 opens.

Sam walks in and detects the tension between the two. Dean keeps looking Zoë in the eye with a determined expression on his face; he’s not planning to let this go. Zoë, on the other hand, stares back at him and doesn’t need words to tell him to shut the hell up.  
   “Okay… awkward”, Sam closes the door behind him and breaks the silence by holding up the bags. “I have booze and burgers”.  
   “Ah good, I’m starving”, Dean reaches out for the burger, but Zoë snatches it away.  
   “You’re not eating anything till I’m done with you”, she clears up, obviously trying to get back at him.  
   “Ah come on!”, Dean objects while she walks away with his food. “That’s like dangling a bone before the eyes of a dog and tell it to get the paper first”.  
Pissed off Dean looks over at his brother who has trouble hiding his smile. But Zoë doesn’t think of herself as funny or smart, she just thinks she’s right. Not giving Dean’s glares any attention she sets the Wendy’s bag on the table, sits down next to him on the bed and pulls the chair that stood next to the wall closer, probably in position to set up her instruments. First she takes away the soaked through towel. Sam frowns when he sees the bullet wound, takes out the whiskey and places it on the chair.  
   “Good luck with that”, he says, glad he’s not the one going through it.  
   “Yeah thanks, bro”, Dean replies sarcastically.  
Zoë takes a serious look at his shoulder, making a unsatisfied sound with her mouth.  
   “Sam, get me an empty glass”, she orders without lifting her eyes.  
Items shove in the sink cabin as Sam tries to find what Zoë asked for. The noises from the kitchen disturb the music on the radio, but also the silence between Dean and Zoë. He hesitates; shall he continue his questioning? He decides to wait, after all, she still has to patch him up. It’s only now that he notices that _I Wanna Be Sedated_ by _The Ramones_ is playing on the radio, ironic as it is. Sam comes back with some new towels and an empty glass.

   “I’ll be honest with you”, Zoë starts off. “This will hurt like absolute hell, but I need you to keep completely still. I think the bullet might have hit the joint”.  
   She turns to Sam, who leans over against the wall and watches from a distance.  
   “Hand me over my medical kit, will ya?”, she points at the metal briefcase still on the table.  
By now Dean is getting somewhat nervous.  
   “You do know what you’re doing, right?”, Dean questions carefully as she takes a forceps in her left hand.  
   “Of course I know what I’m doing”, she replies irritated.  
When he looks aside at his brother, Sam sees doubt and a slight trace of fear in his eyes, which is quite rare and even a bit amusing actually. He decides to jump in to help.  
   “Have you done this before?”, Sam asks calmly, just before she starts on Dean’s shoulder.  
She stops, but doesn’t look up at him; this time her reaction isn’t as rapid as the previous one. Sam and Dean wait for her to respond, but apparently she decides to ignore that question and intends to go to work. Dean pulls back, looking her straight in the eye.  
   “Before you stick that thing in my arm, answer the fucking question”, he demands.  
   “I did this before, happy?”, she answers annoyed.  
   “On a human?”  
Again silence. It’s Sam who’s on to her. After rolling her eyes, she sighs.  
   “On a dead pig, okay? What’s the difference?”, she snaps irritated.  
   “Hey!”, Dean says insulted, until he realizes what she’s actually saying. “Wow, wait… You’re actually gonna do some difficult procedure on me you’ve never done on a living human being before?”  
   “It’s not that difficult. But I guess something like that, yeah”, she admits, not seeming even a bit worried. “But I know what I’m doing, you just have to trust me”.  
   “Trust you?!”, Dean cries out. “You shot me!”  
   “Dean, calm down”, Sam tries without much result.  
   “I am calm!”, he argues, raising his voice even more.  
   “Hey!”  
Zoë calls Dean back to reality, forcing him to face her.  
   “You listen to me now, Winchester. ’Cause I don’t see another option here, unless you wanna end up in hospital”, she gives him a piercing glare.  
   “What do you care?”, he returns.  
She chuckles and stares at him stunned.  
   “You know, you’re absolutely right! I don’t give a shit”.  
  
Mad she gets up, puts back the forceps and the other instruments in the briefcase. She slams the lid and heads for the door.  
   “Zoë, come on. Wait a minute”, Sam says, desperately trying to repair the damage.  
   “Nope, now get the fuck out”, she demands.  
The huntress turns around and opens the door, holding it for them.  
   “You’re kicking us out? You’re fucking kidding me, right?”, Dean says startled.  
   “Do I look like I’m kidding?!”, she returns the question angrily.  
   “Okay, fine”, Dean grabs his jacket and his shirt next to him and gets up, while Sam looks over from one to the other, a bit startled and completely helpless.  
   “Can’t we talk about this, guys?”, he tries.  
   “No!”, both Dean and Zoë answer at the same time.  
Dean stumbles towards the door, it’s clear he isn’t feeling well. But neither he nor Zoë even flinch. Both are too proud to ever admit that they crossed the line, that they made a mistake. Despite his injury they are about to go separate ways, purely because they are arrogant and selfish.  
   “Okay, this is ridiculous!”  
Now it’s Sam who gets mad. Dean turns around and Zoë frowns; finally Sam has their attention.  
   “Listen to her, Dean”, he claims.  
   “Oh what, you’re on her side now?”, Dean reacts insulted.  
   “That’s not what this is about, damn it! There are no sides, we’re all hunters and we have job to do. Fighting like cats and dogs isn’t helping!”, Sam states. “She has a point. We’re in Minnesota, remember?”  
Dean needs a moment to think, but then remembers the case he and dad worked about on about a year ago, in Lafayette, a little over a hundred miles west from here. The local police caught him and his father with the victim of a poltergeist, they had a clear view of his face before he escaped. When they started digging, they found a list of scams, carjacking, robbery, suspect of several more crimes and now murder to top them all. If Dean walks into a hospital and is listed as a patient, it won’t take long before the cops take him in.  
   “Fuck”, he curses, realizing Sam is right; he has ‘wanted’ written all over him.

His brother looks over at the only woman in their company, who leans against the doorway, her arms crossed in front of her.  
   “Can you fix him up?”, he asks gently.  
   “Of course I can, I wouldn’t get myself into things I couldn’t handle”, she answers annoyed.  
He nods approving and looks deep into her eyes.  
   “Please”, he begs. “I know you won’t do this for him”…  
   “Obviously not”, she interferes pissed, glaring at Dean.  
   “Then do this for me, please fix him up”, Sam asks.  
She watches Sam, still mad, but calming down. Dean realizes that for his best interests, he’d better shut up. Then she sighs and steps away from the door, which she closes.  
   “Cut if off with the puppy dog eyes, I’ll do it”, she mumbles.  
Dean slowly sits down on the bed while Zoë opens her briefcase again, getting out the things she need.  
   “Thanks, Zo”, Sam says grateful, words that Dean couldn’t possibly get out of his mouth at this time.  
   “Don’t mention it”, she says. “Do you want a local anaesthetic or are you gonna bite the bullet?”  
That last question is meant for Dean. He sighs, although a sedation does sound tempting, he decides otherwise.  
   “I’ll bite the bullet”, he replies.  
He looks up at her as she takes his arm. She can see in his eyes he would’ve rather gone to the hospital and figure out a plan to bust out later, but at least he isn’t saying it out loud. Considering it’s Dean, that has to count for something.  
   “If you mess up, I’ll kill you, know that?”  
She glares at him, but finds a smile on his face.  
   “Not if I kill you first”, she bounces back grinning.  
She swallows apprehensively, Dean prepares. Then she goes in…


	4. Piece Of Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Zoë and Dean sleep of the long night, Sam is wide awake and doing research. His mind wanders off to Jessica, the girl he loved and lost only a couple of months back. When the huntress in his company wakes up, the youngest Winchester finds himself sharing more about himself than he ever expected to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music playlist:  
> 1\. Down By The River - Neil Young  
> 2\. Look But You Can't Touch - Poison  
> 3\. Changes - Black Sabbath

 

R o c h e s t e r ,   M i n n e s o t a  
N o v e m b e r   2 4 t h ,  2 0 0 5  -  p r e s e n t   d a y 

 

Sunshine peeks through the red curtains, like a little kid spying while playing hide and seek. The beams illuminate motes of dust which are playfully dancing in the air. Thunder and rain moved on and made room for the sun to shine. It’s past noon and Sam’s sitting behind the small table, which is entirely filled with papers, books, files and both his and Zoë’s laptop. Concentrated he goes through documents which the Macbook’s wiki contains, preparing for the next encounter with the shapeshifter. Neil Young is singing _Down By The River_ on the radio, so softly that you’d have to listen very carefully to make out the words. Besides traffic rushing by on Route 52 next to the motel, it’s peaceful. Dean turns on his back in the double bed, moaning softly. Sam looks up and grins. He’s not sure what’s funnier; the fact that Dean isn’t sleeping on the floor or on the couch as Zoë persisted earlier, or that she’s actually the one sleeping next to him. Just before 8 o'clock she finished up the last stitch on Dean. Sam still doesn’t know if Zoë actually knew what she was doing, but she did great. After a night like the last neither of them gave a damn who slept next to whom, they just wanted to finally get some rest in a decent bed. Not before they had their burgers, of course. It’s remarkable how much those two are alike, probably the reason why they can’t stand each other. Strange, they must have gone along fine, otherwise Dean wouldn’t have remembered her. Hell, he doesn’t even remember some of the girls he slept with, not to mention the girls he didn’t screw. If he may believe his brother, she was this fun, sweet and young student, living the good life and enjoying every second of it. The typical Californian girl, loved to surf and hang out at the beach. Also a good musician, apparently she’s pretty good with a guitar, at least that’s what Dean told him on their way over to the motel. Then that demon came along and fucked it all up. Sam hates when that occurs, why do bad things always happen to good people? Now look what she has become. It turns out every hunter needs a history to get started.

He hasn't heard the whole story and Zoë doesn't seem to feel like sharing, but one thing is for sure; she became damn good at her job. The supernatural database she built is outstanding, especially when you take into account that the first file dates from 2000; she’s working the business a little over five years now. Zoë is dedicated, that’s for sure. He looks at the young woman. She’s sleeping peacefully, curled up on her right side, her eyes closed, breathing calmly. It’s weird to see the strong huntress like that; she seems vulnerable now. Not entirely, though, because even in her sleep she seems to have the upper hand on Dean. She has pulled over the cover almost completely, not leaving much for Sam’s brother. He doesn’t seem to mind on the other hand, it will take a lot to wake Dean up after what went down this morning. The light from outside shines a graceful glow on Zoë’s pretty face, she seems to be smiling slightly. She might act like a total bitch, Sam finds her attractive in some strange way. However, he has to be honest with himself. After what happened to Jess, he can’t think of her like that, not now. His eyes turn shallow as his thoughts go back to that moment a month ago. He doesn’t get the time to dwell in his sorrow though, because out of nowhere, Zoë bolts up startled and pulls a gun from under her pillow.  
   “Whoa!”, Sam shows his hands.  
Puzzled she stares at Sam, then aside at Dean and lowers the gun.  
   “Guess it wasn’t a bad dream”, she sighs with raspy voice.  
   “No, I guess it wasn’t, holy shit…”, he relaxes again as Zoë locks the gun and puts it back under her pillow.  
   “I’m not use to having people around, that’s all”, she comments as she intends to get out.  
   “I think paranoid is a better description”, Sam comments.  
   “Shut up”, Zoë’s clearly not in a good mood. “What time is it?”  
   “Almost one”, Sam answers, concentrating on his computer screen again.  
   “Not even five hours”, she groans, realizing that although it’s past midday, she didn’t get much sleep.

She licks her lips and swallows, trying to get the bad taste out of her mouth. Not a great way to wake up, she still feels like crap. The amount of whiskey she drank last night, followed by her fries and burger - with extra onions – didn’t help either. Thankfully it’s still pretty dark in the room, her eyes can’t handle the bright light from outside just yet. With a sigh she gets up. A moan escapes her mouth when she feels her painful abdomen. God, it feels even worse than last night, but she’s not worried. It’s normal to feel sore, this is not the first time she’s going through this. Slowly she shuffles to the bathroom, Sam watches her enter.  
   “You alright?”, he asks, surprised by her condition.  
   “Yeah, a bit hung over, that’s all”, she lies.  
Sam decides not to ask any more questions. He doesn’t know her very well, but he has learned she hates those. He turns back to his laptop, trying to get the image of Jess out of his head. He’s watching an installation program proceed. The governmental website of Rochester is hidden in the lowest toolbar, finally the slow moving progress bar hits the hundred percent. A program opens and asks for a password.  
   “Damn it!”, Sam curses.  
   “What?”  
The sound comes from the bathroom, it’s just now that Sam hears the shower running.  
   “Nothing…”, he responds absent.  
How on earth is he gonna crack this? He works the computer as Zoë takes a warm but refreshing shower. The clean water feels like acid on her bullet wound, but at the same time it relieves her. She forks her hands through her hair and lets the water rain down on her face. For a long while they don’t talk at all, apparently the silence bothers Zoë.  
   “Could you turn on the radio?”  
Still silence, Sam is working so concentrated he doesn’t hear her.  
   “Sam!”  
   “What?”, he snaps out of it.  
   “Could you turn up the radio”, she repeats.  
   “Dean’s asleep”, he reacts, typing strenuously.  
   “So?”  
Again Sam fails to respond.  
   “Hello?!”  
   “What? No, I can’t work with music”, he mutters thoughtless.  
  
Zoë doesn’t ask again. Normally Sam would have noticed that unusual fact, but it’s not until Zoë walks by completely naked that she catches his attention.  
   “Holy sh...”, he swallows down the last word and looks away, almost falling off his chair.  
Not even a bit uncomfortable she walks up to the table and turns up the volume, which sets in during _Look But You Can’t Touch_ by _Poison_ . Sam tries to avoid looking at her awkwardly as she bends over him to turn the volume up. It’s obvious he’s ill-at-ease.  
   “Never seen a woman before, geekboy?”  
   “You could have warned”, he responds looking away with wide opened eyes.  
   “You could have turned up the radio”, she counters.  
He breathes out when Zoë moves away again. When he’s pretty sure it’s safe, Sam carefully glances at the bathroom. Thank God, she’s back in the shower. Again he robs his face and stares at his brother for a moment, who’s still asleep.  
   “Dean, you have no idea what you just missed”, he whispers.  
   “What’s that?”  
Sam almost tumbles off his chair again and stares back at the bathroom.  
   “Nothing!”, he responds too fast.  
Not a sound, for a moment he’s afraid she might come back out again. He swallows apprehensively and tries to focus on his work again, but he finds it difficult to do so. Wow, really… wow. She might be a bitch, but she looks amazingly hot. He hits himself in the head; he can’t think of her like that. _She’s a bitch, not sexy. Bitch, not sexy_ . Suddenly he hears her voice echo from the bathroom. At first is scares him, because for a moment it sounds like she’s right behind him, but then he’s pleasantly surprised as she joins in with Bret Michaels during the chorus. It turns out her singing voice isn’t bad at all.  
   “… _Cause you can look but you can't touch, cause the best things in life ain't cheap. You can look but you can't touch, cause baby I ain't for keeps_ ”, she sings.

Again Sam glares at the bathroom. He can see her pretty much perfect silhouette through the blurred glass, quickly he turns his head. _Sam Winchester, keep it together!_ He’s almost disgusted by the fact that he can’t keep his eyes off her, but then again, every man who could, would be considered gay. The song fades into a new one, this time an easy listener; _Changes_ by _Black Sabbath_ .  
   “What’s up with the whole vampire lifestyle?”, Zoë asks out of nowhere.  
Apparently she doesn’t feel like singing anymore; she closes the faucet and the sound of the water falling down on the ivory white tiles stops.  
   “What?”, Sam looks over at her puzzled, although he can’t see her behind the glass.  
   “There are about half a dozen empty coffee containers on the table”.  
Her voice sounds hollow in the empty bathroom, but Sam can hear her loud and clear. She opens the shower door and grabs her towel and some clothes. It takes Sam a while to answer her question, as he’s trying to decide whether he should tell her or not.  
   “I can’t sleep”, he answers shortly, apparently he chose his last option.  
   “Sure you won’t burn if I throw Holy water in your face?”, she jokes, while putting on a pair of jeans.  
Sam looks up and glances at the bathroom, obviously half listening, then he gets the point. Zoë is still standing behind the blurry glass, putting on her bra; he quickly turns his head.  
   “It’s nothing like that really, it’s…”, he pauses, scratching his chin, finding it difficult to talk about it. “It’s Jessica…”  
His thoughts wander off as he folds his hands together and leans his elbows on his knees, staring in the distance. Suddenly it’s not that difficult to disregard the attractive Zoë. For a moment he pictures her, his pretty Jess. Long blonde curly hair, a beautiful smile. God, she was beautiful in every way. He was in love with her, he still is.  
   “Girlfriend?”, Zoë asks, not seeming that interested.  
   “Yeah, well… she was”, he answers with difficulty.  
   “Oh, I see”, Zoë grins, thinking she got it figured.  
She enters the main room while she buttons her white-grey plaid blouse.  
   “You dumped her, and now you regret it, right?”, she assumes.  
Sam stays silent and leans back in his chair. He takes a sip from his coffee, still staring into the nothingness. Zoë sits down on her side of the bed and takes a pair of socks and black leather ankle boots out of a duffel bag underneath her bed and puts them on as she glances at Sam.  
   “She dumped you?”, Zoë tries again, assuming that her first guess was wrong.  
He gulps, trying to get rid of the lump that is building in the back of his throat and looks her straight in the eyes. It spooks her, the sudden and penetrating gaze. But Sam is not angry, nor annoyed. She’s shocked by what she sees in the depths of his pupils, so much sorrow. She knows that shallow gaze, she knows it way too well.  
   “She’s dead”, she realizes.

Sam doesn’t need to tell her, but he confirms with a nod, almost unnoticeable. She looks down at the grey carpet, feeling sorry for him for the first time since they’ve met. She doesn’t know why, but she can’t show him much of her compassion, she just can’t show emotion.  
   “Because of something we hunt?”, she asks carefully.  
   “A demon”, he answers shortly, looking at the empty coffee container in his hand.  
An eerie silence, as the image of Jessica shows up in front of him again, but this time he doesn’t see her smiling, but in the state that he found her. He grinds his teeth, but he’s not mad at Zoë for asking. He’s frustrated, hurt, trying to cope but unable to. She observes him, noticing something about Sam Winchester that feels familiar, something she recognizes.  
   “I’m sorry for your loss”, she says, pronouncing the words like a doctor or undertaker would do.  
It’s about as compassionate as Zoë ever becomes and although Sam doesn’t know her that well, he seems to realize it. He looks up, his eyes glister. He doesn't say a word, but gives her a thankful nod. Although this is a painful moment, she has to ask him again.  
   “I can’t help but notice, though, that you’re not completely honest with me”, Zoë starts.  
She gets up from the bed and shoves the curtains aside, letting the bright sunlight in. Dean, facing the window, moans and turns his head, but doesn’t wake up. He breathes in deeply and lets out a sigh, his right arm of which his shoulder is bandaged, crossed before his chest. When Zoë’s sure he’s still sleeping, she continues.  
   “You see, you say you can’t sleep. I think you can, but just don’t want to. Otherwise you wouldn’t need six large cups of coffee to stay awake”, she remarks.

Sam glances at the empty containers on the table and looks away; she’s got him all figured out. Strangely enough he doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Actually, he wants to tell her. Somehow he trusts the huntress enough to open up to her, but there’s a fair amount of distance between them to avoid awkwardness about this subject. He looks over at his brother; he’s still sound asleep. Zoë notices he’s checking on him.  
   “You’re worried about him?”, she asks, looking back at the youngest brother. “Don’t, you’ll need to set off a bomb before he wakes up”.  
Sam chuckles; seems like she got Dean figured out as well. She’s right; it’s okay to tell her. It might do him good.  
   “I have these nightmares…”, he starts off and pauses, as he seeks for words. “Let’s put it this way: I rather stay awake than sleep and go through them”.  
Zoë strolls through the room and halts on the other side, leaning against the wall; she seems interested all of a sudden.  
   “Nightmares, huh?”, she repeats, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “What do you dream about?”  
   “All sorts of things, about bad things happening to people I don’t even know. Except for the first one”, he pauses, staring at the floor again; Zoë knows enough.  
   “You dreamt about Jessica, didn’t you?”  
He nods. “Days before it happened”.  
Zoë remains silent from that point, thinking through his words, imagining what they could mean. In the meantime Sam glances over at Dean, checking if he’s still asleep. Not wanting him to hear the conversation he continues with lowered voice. He didn't intend to tell her about his secret and he has no clue why he feels so comfortable with a total stranger, but goes on anyway.  
   “I can’t put my finger on it. How is it even possible that I see an event take place days before it actually happens? It almost seems like…”.  
   “… a vision?”, she asks.  
   “Yeah, exactly”, Sam whispers. “Come on, it’s weird. Even for people like us”.  
   “It is weird”, she agrees.  
Zoë takes a moment to think and observe the information. She bites her lip again, it seems to be a habit.  
   “Do you have headaches?”, she asks out of the blue.

Puzzled Sam glances up at her and looks her in the eye, but she doesn’t blink.  
   “Yeah, I do actually”, he realizes. “But with everything going on with Jess and Dad…”  
   “Dad as in John Winchester?”, Zoë intervenes.  
   “Yeah, he’s missing”, Sam clears up.  
   “Aha, John’s good at that sort of thing”, she comments.  
Sam registers the cynical tone, but doesn’t take the time to think about it.  
   “This is different. He just took off one night, he left Dean and disappeared. That’s when my brother came to Stanford”, Sam tells.  
   “To drag you back in the business?”, she asks confronting.  
   “Yeah, I guess that was his intention, but it isn’t the reason why I’m hunting again”, he says. “Mom was murdered and now Jess? It’s too much of a coincidence, especially with Dad gone. Something’s up”.  
She walks back to the window and observes the area outside. It’s a great day, the sun is shining brightly, smiling down at her. It’s almost ironic, working on a dark case during this weather; it doesn’t fit the picture.  
   “Maybe a demon snatched him”, she says, not even considering that this conclusion actually might upset Sam.  
   “No”, he answers fiercely. “Since when do demons make such an effort to cover the whole thing up? If they kill a hunter, they leave it for the others to find”.  
   “You’ve got a point”, she admits. “You think he’s on a hunting trip?”  
   “I think he’s closing in on the son of a bitch that killed Mom and Jess”, Sam speaks up.

Zoë looks away and pulls on her bottom lip with her teeth, thinking about it. She knows that he’s probably right. John has always been obsessed with the demon that killed his wife and he’ll do anything to end it, no matter what the consequence, no matter what the sacrifice.  
   “It’s the same demon”, she concludes as the pieces start to fall into place in her head.  
She sits down on the bed again, this time not facing the window but Sam. Sam’s girlfriend, his mother’s death, John Winchester’s disappearance, maybe even the nightmares, this could all be connected. She sighs as if the world is resting on her shoulders, without making eye contact.  
   “Are you absolutely sure, Sam? Cause this could be pretty damn important”, she urges.  
This time she does look straight at him, her brown eyes stare deep down his. He gazes back, hurting, but confident.  
   “I saw my girlfriend, pinned on the sealing bleeding on me, after which she caught fire the same way Dad saw Mom burn”.  
Sam pronounces his words slowly, his voice breaks halfway through the sentence. Zoë can almost see the scenario replay before his eyes, she knows he relives it, every day, every time he thinks of her. And so she sighs, that does sound like the same demon. Sam observes her as she puts on a grey jersey she just picked up from the chair and heads for the door. It’s just now that he realizes she’s going out.  
   “Where are you going?”, he asks.  
   “I’m gonna check on my Dave, I thought I heard a sputter in the engine last night”, Zoë explains, but halts by the door. “One more question”.  
Sam waits patiently, looking at her from behind the table. She seems to hesitate, but then continues without looking him in the eye.  
   “Do you have them during the day?”, she asks.  
   “What, the nightmares?”, he asks puzzled, she nods.  
   “Wouldn’t be nightmares then, would they?”, he answers, not understanding her reasoning behind the question.  
   “You’re right, never mind. I’ll grab some lunch on my way back in. Meanwhile you try to get that brother of yours out of his coma”.  
The youngest Winchester shakes his head while he chuckles. Then the door closes, leaving Sam with his brother.

She’s a strange girl, that Zoë Sullivan, that’s for sure. She’s so embittered and even cruel sometimes, but her heart isn’t all black, not yet. She even has this weird sense of humor, sarcastic, cynical. Perkier than Dean, that’s a new one. They don’t come around often in that mixture. She’s a tough girl, a good hunter, not afraid to be by herself, independent and strong, but isn’t that just an appearance that she’s trying to keep up? Sam believes there’s a lot more under the surface. Loneliness, anger, frustration, sorrow, fear, he knows those feelings and deep down, Zoë probably knows them too. There’s something about her that he recognizes; she once had a normal life like he and his brother had and all three of them lost it because of something supernatural. Dean was four years old when he was introduced to this world so few people know about and grew up with it. Zoë on the other hand was nineteen when she found out, he himself stepped back from the hunting fields and went to Stanford, until a few weeks ago that is. Surely Dean might pretend that he embraces his hunters career and that normal is dull, but if he ever gets the chance, Dean would want out too. Sam bets his money on it. All of them were normal up to a certain point in their lives, that’s what they have to hold on to. That gives them the slightest bit of hope they need to keep going, believing that one day they might be able to go back to that. Whatever will happen, things will never be the same again. People died and won’t ever come back. They will always know, they will always be watching their back, they will always be hunters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Don't hesitate to leave a comment or kudos :)


	5. I Fly Solo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean wakes up and goes out for a breath of fresh air, when he finds Zoë underneath her bike, working on the Harley Davidson. When he spots the battle scar on her abdomen from the previous night and asks her about it, it turns out that the Winchesters have more to do with the case than they initially thought.

 

R o c h e s t e r ,   M i n n e s o t a  
N o v e m b e r   2 4 t h ,  2 0 0 5  -  p r e s e n t   d a y 

 

Dean squints when he steps into the light. A plain blue sky stretches out to the horizon, the bright color slowly turns pale as it approaches the illusion between heaven and earth. He’s outside, in the parking lot, which is almost completely filled with cars and doesn’t have the sinister feel to it like it had last night. The oldest Winchester brother needs coffee and he needs it bad. For some reason Sam drank it all and he refuses to drink the shit from the machine in the lobby. He left his coat in the motel room and is wearing his dark blue jacket over his shirt, expecting it to be chilly outside, but the sun feels pleasantly warm. He took a warm shower after Sam woke him up by turning up the volume of the radio completely during the drum solo of a Guns ‘N Roses song. Not because his little brother likes the music, but the sadist surely enjoyed watching Dean bolt upward in bed. A good wake up call he has to admit, but he still feels somewhat hungover; wrecked, tired and in desperate need of caffeine. Traffic rushes by, most of it entering the city of Rochester. It’s a big town, big enough for people to disappear in without others noticing. For a moment he thinks of those the shapeshifter, or whatever it is they are hunting, already took. Sam found a string of at least seven disappearances and that conclusion was drawn from the information he had direct access to from his laptop while Dean was driving up North. These people, they could be anywhere. Dead? Probably. Going to die if they don’t find the hide out fast? Definitely. But before he can work, he needs some decent food and coffee. Dunkin’ Donuts, now that would be a treasure in this town. When he asked Sam where Zoë was, all he got was “out”, followed by “she’s already getting us lunch” when Dean grabbed his wallet and intended to leave. He went out anyway, in the need for some fresh air. His shoulder doesn't feel too bad, as long as he keeps it still. He might not be able to stand Zoë, she did a good job removing that bullet and sewing him back together.

Slowly he strolls towards his car. The pitch black Chevy Impala blinks in the sun, chrome glistering. Dean smiles; what a sight for sore eyes. He’s honored to drive the car Dad gave him a while back. Not just because she’s such a joy to ride, but because it was Dad’s. He kind of owes it to his old man to take care of her. It’s what he expects him to do; to take care of the family.  
   “Hey, baby”,  he greets his Chevy, letting his hand glide over the trunk.  
   “Since when have we reached the phase that you call me ‘baby’?”  
Dean looks over the top of his car and finds Zoë’s Harley parked on the other side, but he can’t spot its owner. He walks around and finds her, laying on her back underneath her bike.  
“Who says I was talking to you?”, Dean returns, leaning against the hood.  
She crawls from under her Road King and observes him for a few seconds, then she grabs a socket wrench ands slips back under.  
   “Right, men talk to their cars. I forgot they do that”, she comments.  
Dean grins and decides not to respond; it’s still early and he’s not sharp yet. The rhythmical sound of the bolt being turned sounds like music to his ears and he suddenly has the urge to pull his tools out of the trunk and get some work done himself. But his baby’s fine, she doesn’t need repairing right now.  
   “What’s wrong with it?”, Dean asks curiously.  
   “I was in a bit of a hurry last night, probably hit a speed bump. It’s just the packing, nothing serious”, she explains without pausing.  
   “And what’s wrong with you?”, he rephrases his question.  
   “Excuse me?”, Zoë asks, caught off guard.  
This time she does pause, but decides to stay under her Harley.  
   “You heard me”.  
Dean doesn’t bother to repeat himself.  
   “There’s nothing wrong with me, shortbus”.  
Zoë continues tightening the bolt, faster than she did a moment ago, annoyed about the fact that she doesn’t know where he’s going with his questioning.  
   “Then what is that wound patch doing there?”, he asks smartly.

Startled Zoë sits up and hits her head hard against the chrome outlet of her bike, causing a loud bang, cursing like a sailor when she lands back on the ground. Fuck! She didn’t realize her shirt crawled up. Dean smirks, but hides his smile when she surfaces from under the bike. Irritated she pulls down her buttoned shirt to hide the gauze through which a little bit of blood has formed a perfect circle in the shape of a bullet wound. She uncomfortably acts like neither he or she knows about it and disappears under her Harley again. Dean, of course, isn’t going to let it go.  
   “Did Sam shot you?”  
   “What? Sam?”, she returns uninterested.  
   “Last night he fired two bullets at you. Did he shot you?”, Dean repeats.  
   “Ha, like I would ever give him that satisfaction”, she laughs.  
   “I’m not kidding”, he states serious.  
She gives the bolt one last turn and appears from under the bike, this time without hitting her head. Annoyed she looks up at him. Shit; how the hell is she gonna talk her way out of this one?  
   “Don’t worry, your bro won’t get the credit”, Zoë comments with a tone as she grabs a dirty cloth and cleans her hands, looking away.  
   “If he didn’t do it, who did?”, he asks, clearly not accepting a smart answer.  
   “What does it matter? It’s nothing serious”, she mutters as she gets up.  
   “It is! You got shot, damn it”, Dean argues.  
   “So did you. How’s that shoulder by the way?”  
Zoë quickly changes subject, but Dean is smart enough not to take the bait.  
   “No no no…”, he shakes his head and grins. “I’m not gonna fall for that one. My shoulder’s fine, thanks, but you’re still answering that question”.  
She sighs. Seems like there’s no way out of this.  
   “It’s not that bad, it was a clean shot”, she insures, still avoiding Dean’s question.  
   “Did you get the bullet out?”, Dean asks, almost parental.  
   “Of course I got the bullet out”, she replies annoyed.  
   “Who shot you?”, he again questions.

Zoë doesn’t answer and walks up to him after which she leans against Dean’s Chevy as well. Her dark hair is still wet from the shower she took earlier and seems black. Despite the crappy night, her natural tan gives her a healthy appearance. The only thing that gives away that she's tired are the slightly visible bags under her eyes. When she looks aside, she meets Dean’s gaze, waiting for some kind of response. With a sigh she gives him an answer.  
   “The shapeshifter”.  
Dean needs a moment to analyze her words, he doesn’t know which question he needs to ask first.  
   “So it is a shapeshifter”, he concludes. “You ran into him?”  
Zoë averts her gaze, debating her conscience. Should she tell him everything? She knows he will keep digging till he does, but she could lie. Oh, what the hell. She might as well give him the whole story.  
   “Yeah, yesterday evening. I had an appointment with a possible next victim, this guy called Cliffer. Turned out the son of a bitch already shed into him…”, she explains, but Dean intervenes.  
   “Wait, Cliffer? As in Terry Cliffer?”, he asks.  
   “Yeah”, suspiciously she tilts her head while looking at him.  
   “Shit, you’re Sharon Evans”, he rubs his face, realizing what is going on.  
   “What? How the hell do you know my fed ID? ” Zoë asks with a tone.  
   “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think Sam technically _did_ get you shot”, he starts off hesitating.  
   “Excuse me?!”, she cries out, turning towards him completely stunned.  
   “We rang Cliffer around five yesterday afternoon, to make an appointment”, he admits.  
She stares at him as the missing links connect.  
   “Let me guess! FBI agent?”, she places her hand in her side and bites her lip.  
   “Yeah… He asked if Sam was Sharon Evans’ partner or something. We didn’t realize we were on somebody else’s case”, he admits.  
   “You son of a…”, she swallows down the last words and turns around furiously.

That’s why that thing changed! She didn’t gave herself away, _they_ did! It’s a bit of a strange that two FBI agents call, being on the same case without knowing if from each other. The shapeshifter was tailing Cliffer already, she was suspecting that, but when it learned about the appointments, it changed shape quicker than planned. That bastard knew from that point on that there’s at least one hunter in town, it’s on to them.  
   “Fuck!”, she curses out loud.  
Mad she turns away and walks back and forth between Dean’s car and her bike. Dean just follows her with his eyes, not saying a word. He knows that everything he says will only make her angrier, even if it’s just a smart attempt to lighten the mood.  
   “What time’s that appointment?”  
   “Five thirty”, Dean answers shortly.  
   “Where?”  
   “ _Beetle’s Bar_ or something”, he hesitates, not sure if the information he’s sharing is right.  
   “You don’t know?”, she asks annoyed.  
   “Sam knows. He’s the geek, not me”, he says agitated.  
Zoë closes her eyes and forks her fingers through her hair, staring at the passing traffic for a moment. She doesn’t seem amused.  
   “I don’t see why this is a bad thing”, Dean starts off casually, but she doesn’t take it well.  
   “Why it’s a _bad thing_ ? It probably means the real Terry Cliffer is dead!”, she snaps, after which she lowers her voice as guests walk out the _Motel Six_ .  
   “You don’t know that”, Dean argues.  
   “Not for sure, but he’s not exactly happy at home with his wife and kiddies either, is he?”, the huntress lisps, her eyes penetrate his.  
   “Maybe not, but the shifter doesn’t know that we’ve met. That gives us the advantage, it doesn’t know we know”, he looks back.  
   “What was your major plan then, Hannibal Smith?”, she likes to know.  
   “I don’t have plan, like I said…”  
   “Sam’s the geek, I know. God, seems like your folks saved the brains for the second kid”, she sighs and finds her own balance again instead of leaning against the black car.

Dean rolls his eyes and glares at her, but she already turned her back on him. She picks up the tools she just used on her bike and puts them back in a small case, resting on the saddle. As she cleans up she tries to figure out some kind of plan, but if she’s not even sure with who Sam actually made that appointment, then how can she work out a plan? She stops with what she was doing and stares at the asphalt. Her eyes say nothing, just an empty gaze, going through the scenarios. Dean observes her for a moment.  
   “Did you eat?”, Dean asks out of nowhere.  
   “No”, she answers confused; what does that have to do with anything?  
   “Then how the hell can you think properly?”, he questions.  
She shrugs, only just now realizing that her stomach sounds like as if there’s a war going on inside.  It’s no fun to admit, but Dean has a point.  
   “You’re right, I’m off”.  
Zoë throws her right leg over her Harley and lands in the black leather saddle. She picks up her old biker jacket from the handlebar and puts it on.  
   “Can I come?”  
The way he asks is like a little boy would, innocent and hopeful, adding ‘pretty please’ with begging green eyes without actually pronouncing the words. She chuckles and shakes her head.  
   “Sorry Dean, I fly solo”.  
Her engine starts with a satisfying pur instead of the louder sputter it produced earlier on. She smiles contended and puts on her helmet. Dean on the other hand, looks at her just like that same little boy would do, disappointed, even though he tries to hide it. Then she takes off and exits the parking lot. Just before she turns on the parallel road to the 52 highway, she glances over her shoulder with a grin on her face.  
   “Thanks for lunch!”, she shouts to overrule the sound of her Harley.  
Lunch? Puzzled Dean watches her drive off. He feels his pockets, knowing he’s missing something. Then the typical roar seem to come closer again; he looks up. The Harley Davidson isn’t exactly coming back, but drives down on the parallel road going to the city. She heaves her hand victoriously holding his wallet as she drives by. Dean’s eyes follow her, his mouth half opened, completely flabbergasted. That dirty little thief! She just stole his wallet! He sighs pissed as Zoë and her Harley merge in the busy traffic in the distance. How could she…? When did this...? Stunned he stares and chuckles. Unbelievable. He, one of the best goddamn hunters out there, got pick-pocketed. While shaking his head he turns around and walks back to the lobby, muddling softly.  
   “Son of a bitch”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you let me know what to think, it would be very much appreciated!


	6. Three Is A Crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoë returns to the motel and talks the case through with the Winchesters, but when she gets the idea that the boys want in on the case, her mood suddenly turns. John Winchester is brought up and all of a sudden the huntress doesn't want anything to do with them anymore.

Z oë slips her key in the door lock of room 82 and walks in.  
   “Finally!”, Dean says out loud.  
He’s laying down on the bed with his shoes on the spread again, sitting up against the back wall reading a magazine of which Zoë doesn’t want to know the content of. Sam is behind his laptop, not surprisingly. The oldest of the brothers smiles happily when he sees the Taco Bell symbol on the paper bags she’s holding in her hand. It might took her a while to get back, but at least she brought in the good stuff. Without responding to his comment she throws him back his wallet without Sam noticing. Dean catches it with one hand and answers her victorious grin with a glare. As if he hasn’t eaten for days, he attacks the taco Zoë hands over secondly, quickly tearing away the paper wrap and taking a big first bite. Zoë isn’t surprised by his manors, honestly she feels like stuffing the entire thing into her mouth herself. Sam still can’t help to stare at his brother for a moment and clears his throat disapprovingly. His older brother doesn’t seem to be bothered at all and lets out a satisfied ‘mmm’.  
   “This is good”, he comments with his mouth full.  
   “Thanks, Zo”, Sam says, after which he also takes a bite from his lunch.  
   “Don’t thank me”, she nods at Dean. “He’s the one who paid”.  
The youngest of the two frowns and looks over to his brother for an explanation. Dean and paying the bill? That’s a big first. He doesn’t need to keep watching him for long before Dean stops chewing and his facial expression goes blank. Uneasy he looks away and swallows his bite. Zoë watches him, smirking.  
   “She… ehm”, he pauses, studying his taco for a moment. “she kinda… stole my wallet”.  
Sam almost chokes on his food and laughs out loud. He immediately receives a penetrating gaze from his brother.  
   “That explains the new jacket”, Sam says after which he takes another bite.  
Puzzled Dean looks up. Jacket? What jacket? Then he spots the black leather Harley Davidson bomber jacket on Zoë, brand new by the looks of it.  
   “You didn’t”, he reacts shocked.  
   “Oh, I did”, she smiles at him, clearly enjoying herself.  
   “How much was it?”, he grinds, trying to keep calm.  
   “Not sure actually, I didn’t bother to check the price tag when I slipped your card”, she says, utterly satisfied.  
For a moment Dean just stares at her, his upper lip twitches for a moment as frustration builds. What would that jacket be worth? $ 400,- … $ 500,- maybe?  
  
   “Oh don’t be such a jerk about it”, she comments when she spots his face. “You have at least a dozen more credit cards hidden in the trunk with that arsenal of yours”.  
   “How the hell would you know that?”, Dean would like to know.  
As she takes a bite of her taco she looks up, digs deep down her pocket and tosses him his keys. While she continues eating her lunch, Dean stares at the keys in his hand, trying to figure out how the hell she got those. Sam has a hard time keeping a straight face, who could blame him? There’s no finer entertainment than this; Dean is getting played.  
   “You touched my car?”, his brother asks, holding back.  
   “Obviously I had to, otherwise I couldn’t have taken these”.  
Zoë holds up a demon protection amulet.  
   “Give those back, Zoë”, Sam demands, trying to be strict. “What else did you take?”  
   “Some herbs, nothing expensive”, she admits, revealing a dried vine of Viburnum from her pocket, shrugging carelessly.  
   “Gardner here went through a lot of trouble to get a hold of that dead plant you’re holding there, I’d give it back if I were you”, Dean suggests.  
   “No, I need it”, she states and she puts it back in her pocket.  
Sam focuses on her and narrows his eyes. Why would she need that herb? He stares at it, two dried out plants tied together with a double shoestring. It only works for one thing…  
   “Not for yourself, I hope?”, Sam asks carefully.  
   “A case I’m working on the side actually, can’t find the damn things anywhere”, she clarifies.  
   “Keep the damn plant, but I want the amulet back, get your own supplies”, Dean gets up and holds up his hand, waiting for Zoë to hand the item over, which she does with a sigh.  
He doesn’t thank her, in fact he’s not happy with the fact that she has been sniffing around in his car without asking. The silence that follows is awkward, even for Zoë, and she decides to change the subject.

   “Back to business, I reckon you updated Sam while I was out?”, she asks Dean.  
   “Yep, every detail”.  
   “Let me get this straight”, Sam, sitting on the chair near the desk, leans forward. “You’re sure it’s a shapeshifter and it knows you’re a hunter”.  
   “It does, but it didn’t know that at the time of the meeting. It knew  _ one _ of the callers was, but for all it cared I could have been the FBI agent. The fucker shot me anyway”, she elaborates.  
   “What’s your point?”, Dean asks.  
   “Say if Dean and I go to that meeting, pretending to know nothing, it won’t take any risks. The shifter will try to kill us both”, Sam understands.  
   “You guys are not going in”, the huntress makes clear right away with a stern tone.  
   “So what then? Lure him out and shoot the bastard?”, Dean suggested.  
   “That’s a possibility,  _ if _ that meeting is with the shapeshifter”, Zoë answers as she walks over to the fridge.  
Two puzzled faces follow her as she opens the door and looks inside.  
   “You’re not making any sense at all”, Dean apparently gives up to follow this conversation and lays back down on the bed again.  
   “You just said you’re sure it’s a shapeshifter”, Sam states.  
   “No, you said that. I said I was sure that this case  _ involves _ a shapeshifter, but you might actually have made an appointment with the real Cliffer guy”, she explains as she takes out three beers.  
   “You mean that he might not have taken Terry Cliffer yet?”, Sam asks.  
Sam looks back at Zoë, who gestures one of the bottles to him, but he rejects. Dean though, takes his and his brother’s beer without hesitation.  
   “You’re serious? You haven’t even been up for two hours”, Sam says, astonished by the both of them.  
   “It’s after eleven, that’s fine by me”, Zoë puts the bottle against her mouth and takes a swig.  
   “You read my mind”, Dean heaves his beer and does the same.  
   “Want anything else, Sammy boy? A Fristi perhaps?”, Zoë asks with a happy voice and a smirk on her face.  
Dean chortles, almost choking in his beer, but when he sees Sam’s glare, he quickly takes another sip.  
   “Don’t call me Sammy, and no, I’m fine”, he states, but continues their conversation. “So there is a possibility we might actually have a meeting with Terry Cliffer…”  
   “Wow, slow down.  _ We _ ?”

Zoë leans against the table, her hands resting on the edge. Her body language is distant all of a sudden, apparently she not very happy about Sam and Dean joining in on the case.  
   “You could use our help, Zo”, Dean eyes her as he sits up.  
   “Help? Thanks to the big ‘help’ you’ve been, I couldn’t finish the case last night!”, she huffs.  
   “That happened, sorry about that. But as long as we’re here, we can offer a hand. Besides, we have an appointment with Cliffer”, Sam argues.  
   “I’m going to that appointment myself”, she clears up.  
A quick glance at the clock tells her that it’s a little past three. She still wants to dig a little deeper on her guy. The boys better get going.  
   “No, you’re not. That’s our appointment”, Dean bounces back.  
   “I don’t care, I was here first”, she returns snappy, crossing her arms in front of her chest.  
   “Oh come on, how old are you? Five?”, Dean frowns with an attitude.  
   “Knock it off, you two”, Sam comes between them. “It will be easier to catch that shapeshifter with three hunters than with one, Zoë. Why don’t we go there together, you lay low and when we find the shapeshifter, we shoot it. We know he’ll be in the bar anyway, either as Terry Cliffer or someone else”.  
   “No, I’m gonna deal with this and I do  _ not _ need your help”, she makes clear.  
   "I can see that”, Dean comments, nodding at her shot wound.  
   “Who caused that again?”, she lisps, reminding him of the fact that she got shot because of their phone call.  
   “Look, whatever happened in the past, we can work together now. The sooner we get this guy the sooner we can all move on", Sam argues, trying to remain patient.  
Zoë sighs irritated, how many times does she have to repeat herself before they get it?  
   “Listen to me, Sam. I fly solo. I don’t do teamwork, certainly not with you two. End of discussion”, she takes a last sip of her beer and sets the bottle down on the table.  
   “Who do you think you are, ordering us around like that with your “end of discussion”? Our dad?”, Sam argues back.

She suddenly turns her head, they can almost see the angry fire burning in her eyes as if they just lighted a fume that’s about to explode. His comment woke something inside of her that they should have left alone.  
   “I’m am  _ nothing _ like your father!”, she snaps.  
   “What the hell is that suppose to mean?”, Dean questions offended.  
   “Exactly what it sounds like, Winchester”, she answers with a tone.  
   “What did he ever do to you? He exorcised that evil son of a bitch that was wearing you to the prom, for fuck's sake”.  
Dean gets up and steps towards her, clearly not so keen about the way she’s talking about his father. Trying to not lose her cool, Zoë chuckles sarcastically, looks away and places her hands in her waist.  
   “You owe him”, Dean pushes, halting before her.  
   “I do  _ not _ owe him anything”, she snarls fiercely, looking straight at him.  
Their eyes battle. They stare at each other, waiting for the other to look away, but both Dean and Zoë are determined not to be the first. The anger Zoë feels for John Winchester is enormous, the brothers can both see it. They struck a nerve, that’s for sure.  
   “I want you out”, Zoë declares without a blink. “And I’m serious”.  
   “Fine”, Dean spats at her after grinding his teeth, then turns away.  
With a sigh Sam gets off the bed and grabs his duffel, Dean is already on his way out. The youngest of the two doesn’t feel like leaving her alone on this case, but Zoë clearly isn’t going to change her mind anytime soon.  
   “If you need us…”, he tries.  
   “I don’t”, she immediately intervenes.  
   “If you do, we’re going south”, he leaves a card on the bed.  
   “Don’t bother Sam, the stubborn bitch won’t call us anyway”, Dean says, holding the door.

She ignores his words. In a quick glance Zoë sees his phone number written down on the card, but she doesn’t intend to pick it up and stays by the table. Sam looks over his shoulder, but he isn’t mad like his brother. His eyes ask her to please consider, but all she returns is a cold gaze. Then the door closes behind them and the brothers walk down the hallway.  
   “Unbelievable…”, Dean says. “That was fucking waste of time”.  
   “I don’t know, I guess”, Sam responds absent.  
Their footsteps echo through the hall as the pass the counter. Sam nods at a younger guy who probably took over for the day as they exit  _ Motel 6 _ and enter the parking lot. The sun is still shining and glisters on the cars passing by on the 52 highway, as their tires rush over the asphalt. Dean walks up to the driver's seat of his Impala.  
   “Where to?”, he asks, as he opens his door and gets in.  
   “We’re staying in town”, Sam decides before he sits down in the passenger seat.  
   “What? No! We have better things to do, Sam”, Dean argues, still pissed off by the entire situation with the female hunter.  
   “I know we do, but I have a bad feeling about this”, Sam admits.  
   “On here we go again with the feminine intuition crap…”, Dean sighs.  
Sam rolls his eyes at him, but doesn’t respond to his words. He doesn’t know why, but somehow he feels like he has to look out for Zoë. Stupid of course, she has been fine by herself for five years, why should today be any different?  
   “Let’s just go, you said something about a possible case in Iowa yesterday. If she can handle this, why bother to stick around if we can hunt something else?”, Dean brings to mind.  
   “One night. We book a motel some place else, check on her and if she nails it, we leave. She doesn’t even have to know we’re there”, Sam suggests.  
   “I thought you were so determined to find Dad?”  
Dean looks aside at his brother, waiting for a response.  
   “I still am, but we have no lead, not even a single clue where he is”, Sam brings to notice.  
   “Hey, that’s what I’ve been telling you, but it didn’t stop you from looking. You were the one who was all “I gotta find Dad, it’s the only thing I can think of” and now you’re ditching him for some chick?”, Dean bounces back.  
   “I’m not ditching him for some chick”, Sam denies offended.  
   “Ah come on, you like her and you know it”, Dean carries on.  
   “I do not like her, Dean! Jess just  _ died _ , Goddamnit!”, he clears up mad as if Dean isn’t aware of that recent event.

Dean looks away and turns the ignition. When he flips the key the V8 motor under the hood growls softly and satisfying, as if it’s impatiently waiting for Dean to back up and hit the road.  
   “You said it yourself, Dad doesn’t want to be found. I don’t see how it’s a bad thing to spend the night here, unless you have some kind of lead I didn’t know about”, Sam suggests.  
   “Fine, whatever. As long as that motel has a bed. I really need to get some sleep”.   
He puts his Chevrolet in reverse and looks over his shoulder as he guides the car out of its parking spot.  
   “Feeling alright?”, Sam checks.                          
   “Yeah, just tired. I need painkillers, that’s all”, he mutters as he sets the car in forward motion.  
Sam takes out his phone and calls a booking agency he has listed in his phone. As the phone rings he sighs, because it surely is gonna take a while before he finds a room during the poker event this weekend. As he waits for someone to pick up on the other side he can’t help but to wonder why Zoë got so worked up about their father. Dean had a point, John saved her from that demon, how could she possibly hate him? Something must have occurred, maybe she crossed paths with him later on and John did something to upset her. She wouldn’t be the first to cross blades with him after all. 


End file.
